


Attrition is the Worst Way to Go

by Shirokokuro



Series: If That Happens, I'll Catch You [10]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batdad, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Crack, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Drabble, Everyone is tired, Everyone sans Alfred needs to go to bed asap, Gen, No Plot/Plotless, Tim is facing a hiccup-related existential crisis at 4 am, domestic batfam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:36:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: Tim has the hiccups and this has no plot.





	Attrition is the Worst Way to Go

The longer Bruce stares into it the more certain he gets: This fridge is an absolute labyrinth.

It’s some dogma of life that all refrigerators are that way, but the one in Wayne Manor takes the cake. (Or five cakes, maybe six if you rearrange the turkey a bit.)

Bruce has no idea why Alfred needed this model in particular, because honestly, it’s got better tech than some of the things in the Batcave. It’s a mystery why the thing needs a tablet embedded in the door. (Okay. Maybe not that much of a mystery. He’s caught Alfred watching  _ Hell’s Kitchen _ on it more than once.), but really? Samsung makes phones. They have no right to make fridges, especially ones that are more byzantine than practical. 

Bruce lets loose an impressively long sigh, effectively signaling his surrender, before snatching a protein shake from the inside of the door. There’s nothing Ensure Plus can do to fade the bruising he’s pretty sure is blooming over his left shoulder, but there’s a certain satisfaction that comes with cracking the band off from around the cap. Yep. Just him, 350 calories, and the sweet peace of 4 a.m. silence.

The fridge door swings closed to reveal that’s far from the case.

Bruce blinks once, face scrunching like a disgruntled pug’s, before stating the obvious. “You should be in bed.”

Tim doesn’t say anything from his spot at the kitchen island, just points to one of the items hanging from the pot rack above him, then to the kettle on the stove.

_ Pot, meet kettle. _

“Fair enough,” Bruce replies, curious as to why Tim couldn’t just say as much. Maybe he’s finally hit the troublesome part of the teenage phase or, more optimistically, is just too tired. The latter sounds more like Tim. He’s in his boxers and a sweatshirt like he at least entertained the idea of going to bed.

Bruce flops onto the stool beside him, not bothering to effect grace. “Can’t sleep?”

Tim shakes his head. He looks oddly focused as he zones out on the azaleas sitting outside the kitchen window. They’re a gorgeous sort of sunset purple—definitely eye-catching, but Tim’s never been one for horticulture.

Bruce takes a swig of his shake. He’s blandly invested in figuring out what’s going on inside the teen’s head, but the quiet is too nice for him to interrupt with conversation. The birds outside are still asleep, the sky a dusty pink, and Bruce even cracked the window open earlier to enjoy the honey-scent of the rhododendron leaves. It feels nice to breathe it in. Bruce wonders if that’s why Tim wandered down here. He glances back to the teen over his beverage, wary, because now that he thinks about it, Tim’s been way too quiet. His chest isn’t moving either. Not even slightly.

“Are you holding your breath?”

Nod.

“...Why?”

Tim blinks at him, looking thoughtful for a second as if pondering how to charade out an answer. He makes a vague sweeping gesture that Bruce greets with a look of abject bamboozlement before giving up. “Hiccups,” Tim wheezes out in an exhale. “Think that might’ve done it, actually.”

Bruce grunts out an, “Ah,” and thus, peace is restored to the universe.

That is, until ten seconds later when someone squeaks next to him. Tim’s shoulders pop up followed immediately by a groan of defeat. The teen wilts onto the counter like he’s just been told his pie didn’t win the fair this year, his cheek resting lamely on the marble. “Shouldn’t have eaten so much when we— _ hic _ —got back,” he laments. “I’ve tried everything. It won’t go away.”

“You tried the water trick yet?”

Tim waves blindly at an empty glass Bruce notices is still on the counter. 

“I could try scaring you?”

Dull eyes flicker his way. Tim looks like death itself, even as he hiccups again. “Right now, you could strike me with lightning, and I’d— _ hic _ —be too tired to flinch. ”

Bruce feels pretty much the same. All he can offer is a weak shoulder pat in consolation. “It’ll pass.”

“But what if it doesn’t? You know how long the longest case of— _ hic _ —hiccups was, Bruce?”

The man knows where Tim’s going with this, so he injects as much disinterest as he can into his reply. “Wasn’t it sixty-eight ye—”

“Sixty-eight years!” Tim exclaims, hands flying up in sleep-deprived distress. “I’d be in my— _ hic _ —eighties. That’s an eternity! I could die before I’d be freed from— _ hic _ —this!”

“Or,” Bruce reasons (One of them has to be sane about this.), “it’ll last another ten minutes and then you’ll be fine. Besides, it’s a Saturday. You can sleep in.”

Tim instantly melts at that, faceplanting back onto the countertop. He lets his arms dangle off the side of the counter like a ragdoll. “Sleep. That sounds so— _ hic _ —nice.”

“What on earth are you two still doing up?”

Tim doesn’t bother turning, but Bruce does to see Alfred in all his well-dressed, well-rested glory as he strolls in from behind them. The man shoots a sharp look Bruce’s way, a diacritic mark over Bruce’s shoulder injury. Bruce is quick to sidestep that topic entirely, even if it means throwing someone else under the bus.

“Tim can’t sleep.”

Alfred’s expression shifts to genuine concern. (Nightmares aren’t uncommon in the Manor.) Bruce is quick to shake his head, and Tim clears the mystery instantly with a hiccup—as much as the teen looks all the worse for it.

“A particularly nasty case of it,” Alfred guesses, to which Bruce nods. “Perhaps I should get the smelling salts. An old Pennyworth cure.”

Tim’s nose scrunches at that, still oozing misery. “‘m fine. Don’t wanna be more awake than I have to.”

“That crosses off the lemon trick then as well.” Alfred sends Bruce a fleeting look ( _ I’ve done all I can do.) _ before setting about making breakfast. There’s something particularly awful about being awake long enough to hear the birds start chirping outside, like consciousness is sin itself, but Bruce decides that he might as well wait it out until his partner looks less miserable. 

In the meantime, Tim’s diaphragm is running with the opportunity to make itself known. Alfred makes desultory conversation to cover for the random squeaks, and although Bruce would rather be passed out, he participates here and there. He’s pretty sure Tim appreciates the effort. The hiccups sound borderline painful, but Tim seems to wither less against the countertop each time.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred asks softly ten minutes later, retrieving a pan from the pot rack with notable care. It doesn’t even clink. “May I ask you for a small favor?”

“What is it?”

Alfred looks pointedly at Bruce’s side, directing his attention to the teenager there. Tim might as well be dead to the world, totally quiet in what looks like sleep. Must've dozed off a while ago: He’s drooling slightly on the counter.

“Would you mind clearing your son off the kitchen island? It would expedite the breakfast-making process.”

Bruce snorts in humor, sweeping some of Tim’s hair off his face. The teen doesn’t move an inch. He stays that way even when Bruce pulls him up enough to loop an arm under him (Tim’s heavier than he remembers.), and Alfred watches the display with a disconsolate sigh. “On second thought, perhaps I’d best skip straight to preparing dinner.”

“Probably for the best,” Bruce tosses over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Alfred.”

“Goodnight, sir.”


End file.
